An experiment in spontaneity
by BeeInYourBonnet
Summary: After a conversation with Alan, John Tracy tries to break his image as the 'Nice-but-Dull' Tracy brother. Featuring John's adventures with smoking, nudism, and a potted plant named Delilah. (Strictly movie-verse and not to be taken seriously).


_Authors note: This fic is a present for Beck's, who first dared me to write a naked!John fic. Let it never be said that I back away from a challenge...  
  
This fic is strictly movie-verse - I needed to write a lighter fic after all the angst I've had in my other stories. Okay, it's not exactly Shakespeare quality, but I had fun with it. Please don't take it too seriously :)  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and it breaks my heart_.

* * *

**_No John Tracy's were harmed during the making of this fan-fic:  
_**

* * *

Two weeks into his shift on Thunderbird 5, John found himself staring bleakly out of a view-port window, bored out of his mind. The view was the same that he had endured three weeks out of four for the past two years – a few stars, a vast black expanse, and a slowly rotating blue globe. In the beginning, he'd found it beautiful...awe-inspiring, even. Now he found it dull.  
  
Mind-numbingly dull.  
  
Heaving a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, picked up a pair of scissors, and began to diligently prune his potted plant. The plant was a present from Gordon, and had arrived on Thunderbird 3 with the latest ship-load of supplies. It had come with a label attached to its stem stating: 'Figured you could use some company up there'. Gordon had meant it as a joke. John, however, didn't take it as such.  
  
He'd named the plant Delilah, and for the lonely weeks that he was stationed in orbit, she was his sole companion, friend, and confidant.  
  
"I'm not boring," he told Delilah suddenly.  
  
Delilah – perhaps somewhat predictably – said nothing.  
  
John snipped conscientiously at an untidy looking shoot, then continued: "And I'm not 'solid' or 'dependable' either. I mean, who the hell does Alan think that he is? Father lets him go on one mission – one mission – and he thinks he's can lecture me?"  
  
Another short silence. The scissors clipped away, sharp and business-like.  
  
"I could be spontaneous if I wanted to. I could be exciting."  
  
After a quick check to make certain that he had cut the leaves symmetrically, John gave a satisfied 'hm' and put the scissors down.  
  
"I could. I...I just don't feel like it, that's all."  
  
A newly pruned Delilah sat in silent sympathy. John stared at her critically for a moment, then sighed.  
  
"Dear God, I'm talking to the damn plant. Alan's right...I _am_ a loser."

* * *

John Tracy's morning routine went thus:  
  
He woke up at precisely seven-fifteen am, Greenwich standard time. By twenty-past he was in the shower, in which took his approximately six minutes to wash himself (another added five minutes if he shampooed his hair). He shaved in front of the small bathroom mirror – an activity for which he allocated ten minutes – then brushed his teeth and dressed. Then he made himself a modest breakfast of tea and toast, and went to the communications bridge to make a start on the days work.  
  
...Every morning that he was stationed on Thunderbird 5 was exactly the same, and had been for as long as he could remember. It was dull, functional, monotonous...and before now, he had never even considered doing things any other way.  
  
This particular day, however, John was determined to make changes.  
  
His alarm clock woke him up – as usual – at seven-fifteen...but he didn't get out of bed until almost ten minutes later. He showered, then dressed, then brushed his teeth. Then, for the first time since he had received his first disposable razor at the age of fifteen, he didn't bother shaving.  
  
...It was a monumental moment in the life of John Glenn Tracy.  
  
He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a short moment, running a hand experimentally over his rough jaw. It felt coarse and sandpaper- like...curiously masculine.  
  
"Oh yeah," he told the unshaved-man in the glass, "I'm a rebel."  
  
Then he padded barefoot out of the bathroom, feeling like the biggest bad- ass since James Dean first roared onto the silver screen.

* * *

The next morning found John in the stations shower, absently humming as he scrubbed at his back with a loofa. After his first tentative experiment with spontaneity the previous morning, he was considering what his next step would be. Perhaps he could have coffee instead of tea for his breakfast? Perhaps he could grow side-burns?  
  
...Perhaps he'd finally be brave enough to wear the novelty boxer-shorts that Penelope had brought him last Christmas as a joke...?  
  
Still considering his options, he rinsed the last of the bubbles out of his hair and stepped out of the shower. His hand automatically reached for the towel...but then, strangely, something held him back. He stood stock still, a frown of thought creasing his forehead. Alan's words echoed through his mind suddenly, as clearly as though his brother were standing right beside him...  
  
_'...I mean, you're all alone up there on Thunderbird 5; you could do anything that you wanted too! No rules, nobody telling you what to do...heck, you could walk around naked all day and nobody would ever even know!'  
_  
His frown deepened as he replayed that last sentence. Walk around naked all day? It was crazy, he knew that, and Alan certainly hadn't meant for him to take it seriously...but still...the idea did have possibilities...  
  
He took an experimental step further into the room. Then another. His bare feet left wet prints on the cold metal floor, his exposed skin rising in goose-pimples. He had to admit...there was a certain guilty-pleasure in being naked. After spending the past two weeks trapped inside his starchy IR uniform, the sensation of air against his skin was oddly enjoyable...almost voyeuristic...  
  
He glanced at his reflection in the mirror – embarrassed, but curious at the same time. For the first time since his panicky, self-conscious adolescent years, John looked at himself...really looked at himself...and came to a startling realisation:  
  
He was actually a pretty good-looking guy.  
  
John walked over towards the view-port window. The Earth continued to rotate slowly in front of the space station, looking for all the world like a giant blue and green beach ball. John flexed his shoulders, then grinned triumphantly.  
  
He was naked!  
  
He was naked in front of the entire planet!  
  
It was the ultimate act of exhibitionism...how spontaneous and cool was he?!  
  
"Take that Alan, you smarmy little git," John gloated out loud.

* * *

Cup of boiling-hot tea in hand – and taking a great deal more care than usual not to spill any on himself – John padded bare-foot into the communications bridge and seated himself at his work station. The metal chair was cold and decidedly uncomfortable on his naked body, and he made a mental note to request a new one the next time that T-3 called in with supplies.  
  
..._Hmm...maybe something in leather_...  
  
...That thought was leading to some pretty strange places, and John quickly forced himself to re-focus on his work duties. He took a moment to adjust the communications channels, checking the frequencies on a number of weather fronts that he had been monitoring. Nothing of any consequence. He slouched idly down in his chair – the movement causing the chair to tickle in some rather unexpected places – and sighed, already anticipating another boring day at the office.  
  
Then he remembered the packet of cigarettes that he kept in the drawer next to his workstation, and a sudden idea sprung in his mind.  
  
...After all, all rebellious young men smoked, it was an accepted fact. He was already well beyond the point of no return now...why not push things just that little bit further...?  
  
John was not ordinarily a smoker – in fact, he'd never so much as touched a cigarette in his entire life. Scott Tracy, however, was another story entirely. He'd picked it up during his final year at university, where a combination of exam stress and neurotic ex-girlfriends had left him with a forty-a-day habit.  
  
It had been the day that John was preparing to leave for his first ever stint on Thunderbird 5. He remembered his older brother handing him a packet of cigarettes – the last that he had on the island...  
  
_John had looked up at him, one blonde eyebrow arched quizzically. "What are you expecting me to do with these?"  
  
"Smoke them, experiment on them, give them to small children...I don't care. Just don't let me have any."  
  
"I take it dad caught you out?"  
  
"Got it in one, Johnny-boy."  
  
John had winced in brotherly sympathy. Jeff Tracy tolerated many things – Gordon's constant pranks and Alan's constant whining included – but one of his precious son's smoking? As far as the clean living ex-astronaut was concerned, the offence of smoking ranked up there with murder and mugging little old ladies.  
  
And so, diligently, John had taken his brother's last packet of cigarettes with him to the space station, shut them in a drawer, and then promptly forgotten about them_.  
  
Until now, that was.

* * *

He held the cigarette between his teeth and – after a few minutes of fumbling unsuccessfully with the lighter – managed to strike up a flame. John could hardly contain his triumph as he took his first drag. He – John Tracy, all-round good guy and resident Mr Nice-but-Dull – was smoking! He was smoking naked! It was a bad, stupid, idiotic thing to do...and it felt absolutely wonderful!  
  
...Or at least it did until he got his first lung-full of nicotine. Unused to the sensation, he spluttered helplessly, eyes streaming as he gagged for air.  
  
Feeling sick to his very stomach, John took the still-smouldering cigarette out of his mouth and stared at it accusingly. People smoked these things for fun?! He shuddered and coughed, trying unsuccessfully to get the bitter taste off the back of his throat. Making a silent vow never to touch another cigarette again for as long as he lived, he was looking around for something to use as an ash-tray when an insistent beeping blared from the communications monitor.  
  
Startled by the sudden noise, John dropped the cigarette.  
  
...dropped it onto his lap...  
  
...dropped it onto his _naked_ lap...  
  
With a horrified yelp, he arched wildly out of his chair, frantically attempting to sweep the glowing ash off from his navel and onto the floor. Somehow, however, this only seemed to make things worse. Now he smelt something: an unpleasant smoky smell...rather like the scent of burning hair...  
  
John paled. The parts of his body that had hair were – without question – the best bits, and now it looked like he had succeeded in setting one of them on fire...  
  
And just when things couldn't get any worse for the unfortunate young man, he suddenly heard his father's voice speaking through the audio-link from Tracy Island.  
  
"Thunderbird 5, do you copy? Thunderbird 5? John, what's going on up there?"  
  
Still wholly consumed with the problem of his burning groin, John danced wildly around the bridge, realising with terrible certainty that his chances of ever siring children were diminishing considerably with every second that passed. In desperation, he looked around for something – anything – to use to put out the cigarette-butt. Then his eyes fell upon his still-steaming cup of tea.  
  
He didn't even hesitate.  
  
With one swift action, he picked up the mug and threw the contents unthinkingly onto his smoking lap. There was a brief moment of delirious relief. No more ashes, no more burning cigarette...he wasn't going to lose his favourite appendage in a nicotine-induced blaze, thank God!  
  
Then, suddenly, the pain hit him like a sledgehammer...the pain of having scolding hot tea burning onto his naked skin...  
  
"John? John, are you there?"  
  
Biting down on his lip, John almost collapsed onto the control panel as he pressed the button to open communications. "This is...Thunderbird 5. G-go ahead father."  
  
There was an uncertain pause on the other end of the line, and then he heard his father's voice. "John, I've only got you on audio. Switch to visual broadcast."  
  
John looked down at himself. He was butt-naked and carefully cradling his tea-splattered loins – which, incidentally, were swiftly turning an interesting shade of crimson – in his hands. He gave a strangled whimper at the back of his throat. There was no way his father was seeing this...  
  
"Uh, n-negative father. I'm having a slight...a slight p-problem up here. Visual communications are down."  
  
"Really?" Another pause. John could almost hear Jeff Tracy frown in confusion. "That's strange. I'll over-ride the systems manually from here. It'll only take a second..."  
  
"_NO_!" Panic set in as John heard the tell tale sounds of buttons being pressed on the other end of the line...buttons that would open the tele- frequency and give the Tracy patriarch a view of his son that neither of them would ever live down. Ignoring the screams of protest from below his waist, John dived under the desk. "I mean, no thank you! I'm fine. Really, I'm sorting everything out."  
  
Jeff didn't sound convinced. "Are you sure? You sound a little flustered up there, son..."  
  
..._Dear God in Heaven_, John pleaded internally, _get me out of this and I swear I'll be good. I'll help Alan with his science homework, I'll be give all my money to charity, I'll...I'll...I'll never watch pornography again for as long as I live!! Please God, just do this one little favour...  
_  
John gritted his teeth. That throbbing sensation couldn't be a good sign."Flustered? Me? No, no...its just been a weird morning, that's all." He hesitated for a short moment, then added pointedly: "Was there something you wanted?"  
  
There was a muffled sound over from the audio-link – a sigh perhaps? "Oh nothing really...just wanted to hear your voice, that's all."  
  
For a brief moment, John was touched by his father's words...then he remembered that he was sprawled naked on the floor beneath his desk, drenched with boiling-hot tea and smelling like an ash-tray. Now really wasn't the time for a father-son bonding moment.  
  
"I'm actually kinda busy right now, father...can I call you back?"  
  
Jeff Tracy was obviously disconcerted by his son's odd behaviour, but chose not to comment. "Well...alright then, if you're sure. I'll talk to you later, son."  
  
There was another pause, then a quiet click signalling that the channel had gone dead. John breathed out heavily, more than a little relieved. That had been close. The throbbing pain that had been burning across his thighs was now beginning to subside, quickly replaced by a growing embarrassment as he mentally berated himself for his own stupidity.  
  
It was bad, but _damn_...it could have been worse.  
  
He waddled away – bow-legged and awkward, like a parody of a John Wayne cowboy – towards his quarters, determined to find a uniform to change into.  
  
John Tracy's experiments in spontaneity were now well and truly over.

* * *

"You did _what_?!"  
  
Scott Tracy's barked laugher sounded over the tele-communications link. From the small screen in his workstation, John could see his elder brother sitting in the main office back at Tracy Island. The elder boy was – as always – effortlessly cool in his buttoned-down shirt and khaki shorts, and John could see what looked suspiciously like a bottle of beer sat on top of the desk behind him.  
  
John frowned sulkily and hunched further down in his chair. "I'm glad that you think it's so funny, Scott, really I am. It makes all the pain and humiliation somehow worthwhile."  
  
Scott grinned good-naturedly. "Aw come on, let's not get melodramatic here. Father didn't see anything, and what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Is everything alright in the, um..." he made a vague gesture downwards, "_Recreational_ facilities?"  
  
John's expression did not change. "My groin looks like a kiddies paint-by- numbers, if that's what you're asking."  
  
"That _wasn't_ what I was asking, but thanks for the mental picture." Scott grimaced and crossed a protective leg unconsciously over his own lap. "So what's the deal? Smoking? Smoking naked? That's the kind of crazy stuff that I used to get up too, but you...John, you're supposed to be the smart one!"  
  
"I just...I just wanted to try something a little different, you know?"  
  
"Different?" Scott stared at him incredulously. "Different is getting a new hair-cut, John. Different is ordering a cappuccino when you normally have de-caf. _You_, on the other hand, almost burnt off your di-"  
  
John cut him off quickly. "Yeah, okay, okay...I get it. I'm an idiot." He gave a small sigh, raising a hand to rub his tired eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "I was just sick of being Mr Nice-but-Boring, that's all. I wanted to change."  
  
For the first time since John had begun recounting his story, Scott's smile faded. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with being Nice-but-Boring!"  
  
"But Alan said - "  
  
Scott cut him off with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Alan is an obnoxious little twerp who's going to get a major ass-kicking the next time I see him. You don't need to prove anything to him, or to anyone else for that matter. Okay, I admit, sometimes you can be a little..." he paused, struggling to find the right word, "...Anal-retentive, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. You just need to loosen up a little, that's all. Stop worrying about everything so much."  
  
That's easy for you to say, John thought glumly to himself. Scott – like all the other Tracy brothers – seemed to breeze through life without a care in the world. John, on the other hand, was a born worrier...always had been, always would be.  
  
Still, he appreciated Scott words, and conceded that they actually made a lot of sense. It was nice to feel that – even with spending so much time away from home – he could still count on Scott to always say the right thing at the right time. Given that John seemed to spend so much of his time as the resident Tracy agony-uncle, he was glad to know that Scott was still available whenever he himself felt the need to gripe.  
  
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So...are you _really_ going to kick Alan's ass?"  
  
Scott flashed his brother a conspiratal grin - all creased eyes and sparkling white teeth.  
  
"For you, Johnny dearest, I'll kick it twice."

* * *


End file.
